Sonrise
by Quarterdeck
Summary: An Easter story.


Disclaimer: Done for love, not for money.

Author's Notes: The idea for this story came to me when I discovered there had been a request for Easter stories – I just couldn't resist trying my hand at it. This was truly written on the fly, and I can't thank Owl enough for providing a last minute net; her knowledge of the terrain around the Gulls-Way area was absolutely invaluable, as was her always-spot-on beta work. Happy Easter, y'all!

SONRISE

As the first hint of morning light began to filter through the window over his bed, Mark McCormick opened his eyes once and for all, and stared at the ceiling for a silent minute. Then he rolled over and up to sit on the edge of the bed, nearly rolling himself off the bed in the process, before reaching slowly for the blue jeans draped carelessly across a nearby chair. He had been dozing off and on for almost an hour, after having gone to bed well after midnight, and as he dressed, he wondered what had woken him so early on a Sunday morning.

He cocked his head, listening, as he scrounged in his dresser drawer for clean socks, but the only sound to be heard was a mockingbird perched on the basketball goal outside his window, singing with a lustiness that McCormick could only envy at that hour of the morning. Other than the bird, there were no unusual noises to take responsibility for rousting him, unless it was the quietness itself. There were very little in the way of traffic sounds coming from the Pacific Coast Highway, and no sounds at all of Judge Milton Hardcastle's usual morning basketball hitting the backboard with its typical zealous fervor. The lack of either or both would be unusual on a weekday or even a weekend morning – but perhaps not so unusual for an Easter dawn.

McCormick ran a hand through his hair, tousling it in a wild halo about his head, and yawned widely as he slipped on a pair of loafers and ambled down the stairs to his living room. Buttoning his shirt, he headed out the front door towards the main house, in the forlorn hope that perhaps Hardcastle had risen even earlier and maybe even had a pot of coffee already brewing. Rounding the corner of the driveway towards the rear of the house, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of the judge himself, barely visible in the darkness, sitting at his ease in an adirondack chair pulled close to the edge of the cliff that separated the Gulls-Way estate grounds from the beach of the Pacific Ocean down below.

The judge appeared unaware of McCormick's approach, eyes distant toward the skyline beyond the eastern hills, where the royal blue of the early morning was just beginning to give way to a soft shade of rose. He held a small book of some sort in his lap, and he looked contemplative, as though his thoughts had been as distant as the clouds that hovered over the tree-rimmed horizon. Hesitant to break in where he might not be wanted, McCormick stopped where he was and kicked gently at a small stone at the edge of the lawn. Hardcastle glanced up in surprise at the sound. "Mornin', kiddo," he said, his face betraying nothing but a casual welcome. "You're up pretty early, aren't you?"

"Mornin'," McCormick answered, leaving the drive to come and lean against the stone wall that bordered the cliff. "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, so I thought I'd head out here and see what was going on. Figured I might as well; sooner or later you'd be getting me up with the Patented Hardcastle Basketball-As-An-Alarm-Clock Method anyway."

Hardcastle regarded him through slitted eyes. "Actually, hotshot, I was gonna give the lay-ups a miss today. Thought it wouldn't hurt you to get a little extra shut-eye, since I expect you were kinda late getting home last night. Those Saturday-night-before-Easter-Sunday services you guys have seem to run kinda long."

"Well, it's the service where they do baptisms and take in new people, things like that. It does tend to take up a lot of time," McCormick replied with a tiny smile. "Even with all that, Father Atia still manages to pull off a pretty good Easter Eve Mass." He paused, looking sidelong at Hardcastle, as though judging the wisdom of his next words, then took the plunge. "Uh, whatcha doing, just sitting out here by yourself?" He flushed at the odd look the judge cast in his direction, and wished that he had been able to keep his curiosity in check. "What I mean is, you don't ever get up this early and just . . . well . . . _sit_."

Hardcastle regarded him evenly, as though debating whether or not to answer, then he flashed a tiny smile of his own. "Well, McCormick, what I'm doing is having myself a little sunrise service of my own."

"Sunrise service?" McCormick blinked in surprise.

"Sure," Hardcastle answered, regarding McCormick in amused appraisal. "Don't they have sunrise services in New Jersey?"

"Well, yeah, sure they do, some churches anyway, I guess. But, well, I didn't know _you_ ever went to any." Despite himself, McCormick could not restrain his curiosity, even as he strove mightily to keep his face expressionless. He would hardly have called Hardcastle a religious man, although they did celebrate the usual holidays with the accepted traditions: carols on the radio and a brightly decorated tree at Christmas, maybe a special ham at Easter. Anything more would have seemed extremely out of character for Hardcase Hardcastle – and any deviation from Hardcastle's norm was intriguing, to say the least.

As he intercepted Hardcastle's quizzical glance, McCormick realized that he had been less than successful at hiding his thoughts, but all Hardcastle did was lean farther back in his chair and remark, "Hah, that's what you think. As a matter of fact, I used to go to a sunrise service every Easter Sunday that rolled around."

"Really?" McCormick asked, dragging up the slanted footstool that matched Hardcastle's chair and sitting down in eager anticipation. "Was that back in Clarence?"

"Yep," Hardcastle answered, unable to resist McCormick's inquisitive enthusiasm. "You know how our place was outside of town. Well, our folks would get us up while it was still pitch black outside, then my sister would dress up in her new Easter dress, and me and Jerry would get dragged into our best suits. Then we'd all pile into the old Model A, or whatever Daddy was driving then, and head to town and the big lot next to the Methodist church."

"But weren't you raised Baptist?"

"Oh, yeah, our family were all Southern Baptists, but every Easter the Methodists would set up all these wooden folding chairs in that vacant lot, and we'd have us a joint sunrise service, with the Methodist preacher doing the sermon one year, and the Baptist preacher doing it the next. They'd use an old table as a pulpit, with a big wooden cross standing just behind it, and if the timing was just right, the sun would come up and light up that cross just as the preacher was finishing his sermon. Pretty impressive." Hardcastle shook his head. "You know, I haven't thought about all that in years." His eyes strayed back to the east once more, where streaks of gold and crimson were just beginning to herald the coming of the morning sun.

"Judge," McCormick said slowly. Reluctantly the judge's gaze turned back to McCormick, his attention caught by the hesitation in his friend's voice. "Tell me more."

"More about what?" Hardcastle asked in puzzlement. "There's only so much you can say about an Easter service, kid. We sang Easter-type hymns, "Christ Arose" and "The Old Rugged Cross" and songs like that, and they took up the collection, and we had the sermon, then the preacher did the closing prayer. That was about all there was to it."

"Well, what did you do afterwards?" McCormick asked, an oddly plaintive note in his voice. He flushed again at the bemused look Hardcastle aimed at him, and continued even more hesitantly. "You see, Judge, my mom, she never talked very much about when she was a girl, and you know how things went with my dad. And, you know, I never got to hear very much about how people did things back before I was born. Flip, he'd talk mostly about how the racecar drivers in his day learned their craft from running shine in the hills, and what it was like to work the pits on the Grand National circuit – that's what they used to call Winston Cup back then – and the times he actually got to work the Indy 500. And the guys in prison, all they wanted to talk about was either how the system done 'em wrong, or how much more exciting it was to be a bad guy back in the days of Al Capone and Pretty Boy Floyd." He grinned faintly. "I never had much of a chance to hear about someone having a _normal_ childhood."

Hardcastle rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, replying dubiously, "Well, I don't know that you'd consider my childhood all that normal, either, 'cause we were 'bout as dirt poor as you could get and not actually be buried in it. I know Mama would save her pennies for a whole year, just to get my sister the material for that new dress, and she'd make it herself by hand on Grandma's old treadle sewing machine. Me and Jerry, we made do with what we already had or what we could get hand-me-down from our cousins, and we'd all get new shoes once a year, if we were lucky." He sighed. "Those were some hard times back then, kid."

Those were about all the recollections Hardcastle had any intentions of sharing, but he relented at the disappointment so evident in McCormick's eyes. "Well, let's see." He drew his brows together in the effort to remember. "After the sunrise service, sometimes we'd all head over to Grandma and Grandpa's, all my aunts and uncles and cousins and anyone else who was at loose ends, and we'd eat this huge breakfast. Then us kids would change into our everyday clothes and go rippin' and snortin' out in the back yard – sittin' still for a whole hour can give a kid a lot of energy – while the ladies started cookin' and the men sat in the living room, listening to the radio and talking. Then we'd eat Easter dinner, usually ham and sweet potatoes and snapbeans and butterbeans and cornbread, you know, all the fixings. And afterwards, all the men would go back to the living room and sit around and eventually fall asleep wherever they were sitting, and the women would go back to the kitchen and do the dishes, and sit around and talk, and all the kids would go stretch out on whatever bed was available and go to sleep." He glanced at McCormick. "Not very exciting, kiddo."

"Maybe not," McCormick said wistfully, "But it sure sounds nice."

"It was," Hardcastle answered, with a reminiscent smile. "But there _was_ one Easter that was just a little bit different." His voice began to take on the cadence of the raconteur, unusual for Hardcastle but by no means unheard of. "I remember one year, I was about ten, Daddy decided that instead of going to Grandma's after Easter services, we'd take us a picnic lunch and go out on a Sunday drive. He wasn't really much of one for doing that sort of thing, thought it was a waste of time and gasoline, but he'd just got himself a brand new – well, brand new to us, anyway – Dodge pickup, and he got this wild hair that it'd be kinda nice to see what it could do on the other side of the county line. So Mama made up some potato salad and fried chicken, and then my folks and my sister got in the cab, and me and Jerry crawled into the back, and off we went." Hardcastle rubbed his nose pensively. "I don't know what got into Daddy that day, but once we got started, we drove, and we drove, and we drove, and before we knew it, there was this big sign that said 'Welcome to Louisiana'. We'd gone and driven clean across the state line."

A glance at McCormick showed him sitting there in rapt attention, and the judge continued with a hidden grin, "Well, it was the first time any of us kids had ever been outside of Arkansas, and we were all pretty excited. We found a place to stop and eat our Easter dinner, this really pretty meadow by the side of the road with all this red clover and purple vetch blooming everywhere, and after we ate, my folks decided we'd go on a little further before we had to turn around and head home."

The judge took a quick look toward the east, apparently to check on the status of the sunrise, then said, "You know, they grow a lot of strawberries in Louisiana, and back then, the farmers would set up these tiny roadside stands, where you could buy little pints of strawberries, or big flats of strawberries, or sometimes even strawberry jam and preserves. Well, Mama just had to have her some of those strawberries, so we stopped at one stand, and while she was picking 'em over, the owner kinda drew Daddy to the side, over to where he had some sort of tarp hanging over the back of his old flat-bed pickup. We could see 'em talking a little, like they were dickering over something. Next thing we knew, here came Daddy with this big gallon jug, holdin' it kinda behind him like he didn't want Mama to see, and he put it real carefully in the back of the truck with us and covered it up with the old blanket we'd used to eat our picnic on."

Hardcastle suddenly snickered, and his eyes began to twinkle. "Turns out, that strawberry farmer was running a nice little business on the side, making strawberry wine out of the duds that weren't good enough to sell. You gotta remember, this was still during Prohibition, so even in Louisiana, where you could do just about anything you wanted to if you knew where to go, drink or gamble or whatever, that farmer was taking a chance selling it and the customer was taking a chance buying it. Mama didn't have any notion what was going on, and Daddy whispered to us while she wasn't looking that we weren't to say anything about it, it was a present for Uncle Henry. Yeah, sure," Hardcastle snorted. "Anyway, he snuck that thing underneath that blanket, and we turned around and headed back up toward home, taking with us two flats of strawberries and a highly illegal jug of wine. Everything went fine until we crossed back into Arkansas. And then," Hardcastle said with a huge grin, "we had us a little wreck – with a county deputy's car."

McCormick sat up straighter on his footstool, his own grin reflecting Hardcastle's amusement. "I bet your dad was thrilled about that. So then what happened?"

"Well, as you might've guessed, that deputy wasn't just really all that pleased with us, even though it was his fault, 'cause he was the one ran the stop sign. It wasn't a bad wreck – back in those days, people didn't drive so fast, and everything was made out of steel and iron, not this fiberglass stuff they use nowadays. But he still decided he needed to check things out, and he started looking through the cab of the truck. When he saw those strawberries Mama was holding in her lap, he got this really intent look on his face, like maybe this wasn't the first time folks heading north with Louisiana strawberries had had little accidents along the way. So, anyway, he made everyone get out of the truck cab, and he checked out the cab good. And then he headed right towards the bed of the truck where we were sitting, and I thought Daddy was just gonna die right then and there."

Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair, his face cupped in his hands. "Boy, I knew we were sunk then. But Jerry, he might not be so smart with the bookies now, but he was always a precocious little kid. He didn't really understand what the big deal was, but he knew that if Mama wasn't supposed to know anything about that jug, chances were Daddy wouldn't be too happy about anyone else seeing it either, and we'd both seen the expression on Daddy's face when that deputy started walking back there. Anyway, Jerry whispered to me that maybe I should talk to the deputy awhile while he did something with the jug. Even then, I was wanting to be a cop someday, and I was kinda glad to get a chance to talk to one who hadn't known me my entire life. And so I got out on the left side of the truck and talked to the deputy, with everyone else just kinda standing around over on that side, and somehow Jerry managed to slip that jug of wine out from beneath that blanket and stick it back behind the seat of the truck where the deputy had already searched. I wouldn't have thought it would fit there, myself, but heck, Jerry can make just about anything work when he tries hard enough – except maybe his betting system."

McCormick laughed at that. "Imagine Jerry playing the hero. So did it work? Did the deputy ever find the wine?"

"Naw, the deputy never found anything but those blasted strawberries, and I don't need to tell you just how relieved Daddy was about that, and a little scared too, maybe, 'cause he had no idea what had happened to that wine. Anyway, the deputy fussed at Daddy a little about reckless driving, even though the wreck was his fault to begin with, and then he let us go, all the damage being what you might call cosmetic in nature. It was a still a long trip home – a _really_ long drive for Daddy, I bet – and when we finally pulled in front of the house about ten o'clock that night, Daddy let Mama and my sister out while he and us boys headed the truck to the barn. And _that's_ when Jerry told him where the jug was."

Hardcastle's grin turned into a soft, still disbelieving smile. "It was kinda weird, what happened next. Daddy got this funny look on his face, and then he hugged us both, something he _never_ did. And after that, he went and got the tin cup that was always hanging from the cistern, and he pulled out that jug and poured some out and let us try it. We were a little young for hard spirits, I guess, but I reckon he thought as we'd been so good about hiding the stuff, we deserved a little taste."

Suddenly the judge starting laughing, his eyes crinkling at the memory. "I don't know what I was expecting, maybe something like muscadine or apple juice, but let me tell you something, McCormick, that was the most terrible stuff I'd ever drunk in my life. Daddy took one swallow and gagged, then he started laughing so hard, I thought he was gonna pass out. I never did find out what Daddy finally did with the rest of it – I don't know, maybe he eventually did give it to Uncle Henry. Poor Uncle Henry." He glanced up at McCormick's grinning face. "So there you have it, my most exciting Easter memory. As stories go, not a really good one, but it's the best I can do on short notice."

And then, as though pulled by an invisible magnet, the judge's eyes once again traveled back to the east, where small gold flashes of sunlight were just beginning to be seen, filtered through the scrub growth of the hillsides and the lowest branches of the oaks that dotted the estate. All at once, his whole attitude seemed to become more solemn – not really sad, not exactly happy, just . . . reflective.

McCormick sobered as well, and as he watched Hardcastle's face, he said, "You know, you never did really say why you're out here so early. I know it's none of my business," he added hastily, seeing Hardcastle turn towards him once more, his expression unreadable. "But, Judge, I worry when you don't act like yourself. You remember what happened last time you did that," he added ominously. "And you gotta admit, this is definitely not like you."

Hardcastle studied McCormick's determined face thoughtfully, then he said, "McCormick, I promise you, I'm not dying, and I'm not gonna go out and buy a boat, or a new stereo, or a new TV, or any of that stuff." He turned serious once more. "I'm just out here because . . . well, because it occurred to me that it was about time me and God had some conversation with each other, and I didn't think there'd be any better time for it than right now."

McCormick stared at him, perplexed. "Why on earth . . ." Then he collected himself at the thought that maybe this really _wasn't _any of his business. He started to scramble to his feet. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . ." he began, and was surprised to see Hardcastle waving him back to the footstool.

"Wait a minute, kiddo. I wasn't gonna tell you to go." McCormick was astonished to see a slight reddening in Hardcastle's cheeks, matching the blushing hues of the clouds over the Pacific as they began to reflect the first stray rays of the sun. "In fact, it's kinda because of you that I'm out here."

Completely mystified, McCormick reseated himself and waited in patient bewilderment while Hardcastle cleared his throat, staring back to the east once more. He did not look McCormick's way again, and McCormick had the distinct impression that whatever the judge was about to say, was going to be very serious speaking indeed. Still, he was stunned at the judge's next words.

"You know," Hardcastle said in a low, strained voice, "when my son died, I didn't get mad at God or anything like that. Maybe it's a little strange that I didn't, because that sounds like it didn't hurt when he got killed, and it did, it hurt a lot. It still hurts," Hardcastle added unnecessarily. "It's just not natural when your kid goes before you do. But I figured that God knew what it was like to lose a son, and He knew just how I felt."

"Well, yeah, I guess," McCormick said, trying to follow Hardcastle's thoughts as best he could. "But He got His son back again."

"Not 'til the third day," Hardcastle answered, resting his chin on his fist, with his elbow planted on the arm of his chair, his eyes still following the progress of the sun. "You can suffer a lot in that amount of time. Believe me, I know. And anyway, I think that's kinda one of the perks that comes with bein' God, doing stuff like that. Sort of like a consolation prize for having to put up with all the guff the rest of us shell out to Him all the time."

The judge straightened in his chair and looked down at the book he still held in one hand. "Well, anyway, when my son died, they sent us a box with all his personal effects, you know, rings and watch and dog tags and things like that. And do you know, neither me or Nancy could even bear to open it, much less go through it. So it's spent all these years stuck up in the top shelf of the closet of his old room. Just sitting there, gathering dust. And for some reason, last night, after you left for Mass, something just told me I needed to get that old box down. It just seemed to be _time_, you know?"

Hardcastle shot a inquiring glance toward McCormick, who nodded silently, mouth dry, amazed and a little humbled that Hardcastle could be sharing something this personal with _him_. The judge continued, his eyes focused again on the little book in his hand, "So I got the box down, and I put it on the desk, and there was all his stuff . . . well, enough of _that_," he said curtly, the sharpness of his voice mirroring his desire to cut away the memories the box had brought back so vividly. "That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He took a deep breath, then he held out the little book to McCormick, quickly, as though he might yet change his mind about letting anyone else into his own private little world. "In the very bottom of the box was . . . that."

Reaching forward, McCormick took the book, which turned out to be a small Gideon testament, slightly battered, reddish in color, with darker stains here and there. An envelope nearly as small was stuck between its pages, the edges also showing the occasional rusty spot, and suddenly McCormick sensed his face going white with the realization of what the stains represented. He looked up helplessly at Hardcastle, feeling as though his heart would break, his face for once giving away everything, and Hardcastle nodded reassuringly as he gently retrieved the book from McCormick's nerveless fingers.

"Yeah, it looks like he had it on him when . . . well, when it happened." Hardcastle shook his head sadly, one finger gently rubbing the edge of the envelope. "This was his mother's last letter to him, still sealed – he hadn't even had a chance to open it." Roughly he wiped his hand across his eyes, then he flipped through the testament. "It's all marked up, with stuff underlined. It was strange going through it, 'cause it was like getting messages from someone – maybe my son, maybe God, maybe both, I don't know. But what really got me was what he had underlined on this one page, right where he'd stuck Nancy's letter, kinda like a bookmark."

Hardcastle looked at McCormick full in the face then, his own face suddenly older, more vulnerable, yet somehow calm, with a sort of inner serenity that was totally at odds with Hardcastle's normally gruff exterior. "I said I wasn't mad at God when it happened, and I meant it, but the bad part was, I didn't feel anything else either. Pain, yeah, a lot of pain in the beginning – and then, nothing. And then Nancy got sick, and I went through the whole routine again, and after all that was over, well, that was it. I guess I just locked it all away. I was sorta handy at that sort of thing, you know, a good judge has to be, but it doesn't mean it was a _good _way to be." He smiled wryly at McCormick and said, "Let me tell you, kid, I sure coulda used someone with your talents back then."

McCormick didn't know what to say to that, but perhaps his eyes had found a way to reveal what his voice couldn't find the words to express, because after an brief pause, Hardcastle opened the book to the place marked by the envelope and said, "You know, this wouldn't have meant a thing to me if I'd looked at it when they first sent us that box all those years ago. It would've just been another Bible verse underlined in blue ink. But when I read it last night . . . well, sometimes there's more than one meaning you can put to what's written in the Good Book. I think that's the way God meant it to be, and I think that's what my son meant when he left it for me and his mother to find, only God's timing was maybe a little different from what my kid intended. It's like I said, God does understand what it's like to lose a son, and I guess maybe I oughta trust Him more to know what He's doin'." Abruptly he stood up and once again handed McCormick the book, still open to the page in question. Then he walked over to lean against the stone wall, his face closed and still, staring tensely at the sun that could be glimpsed briefly through the higher branches of the estate trees as it steadily tracked its way into the sky.

As McCormick watched Hardcastle in concern, he gently dislodged the envelope from its resting place and tucked it near the back of the testament. Then he brought his gaze down to read the words marked in ink by a very young man who somehow must have known that he was at the end of his too-short life, words meant to be passed on to an beloved older couple who stood unsuspectingly on the verge of a long and lasting grief. The underlined passage was from the Gospel of John, where Jesus was talking to his disciples on the eve of his betrayal and crucifixion: _"And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you forever. . ."_

Without warning, tears blurred McCormick's eyes, so that he could no longer see the page. Replacing the envelope in its original position, he closed the testament and held it tightly in his hands, feeling a sudden and surprising kinship with the young man who had kept it close to his heart so long ago. There was a sudden sense of crushing responsibility as well, a desperate hope that he had been shown to be up to his unknowingly assigned task, and he truly thought his heart _would_ break at the idea that someone – a kid he'd never even met – had asked for someone like _him_ to be here to take care of his old man, and that Someone Else had cared enough to ensure it would happen, however roundabout the method. And in the midst of all this was the wondering astonishment at the way old Hardcase could somehow _always_ manage to surprise him, no matter what the circumstances.

Then suddenly, there was Hardcastle himself standing beside him, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet, his face unexpectedly excited as a kid. "_C'mon_, McCormick, this is what we've been waiting for!"

McCormick blinked away the moisture from his eyes and looked up to where the sun at last had cleared the eastern hills and largest trees of the estate, its golden rays spilling over everything in its path, lighting up the gravel of the drive, and the stones of the wall, and the judge's face tilted in its direction. And then Hardcastle was pulling McCormick to the edge of the cliff, pointing to the sea below. "Watch this."

At that moment, streaks of sunlight crossed the last barrier of the cliff and hit the ocean with all their halcyon beauty, so that where the surf broke over the rocky outcroppings, each tiny droplet suddenly turned into a multicolored diamond, gold and silver, blue and green, thousands of miniature jewels dancing across the waves like glittering confetti against a lacy backdrop of foamy white, flung jubilantly against the beginnings of an incredibly azure sky. It was a truly breathtaking sight, and Hardcastle and McCormick stood there, watching in mute awe, until the sun rose high in the sky and the sea returned to its normal hues, the colors of the water changing to their usual green-tinged sparkle and creamy foam as the incoming tide crashed its way onto the sandy beaches below.

McCormick turned to the judge, his face grave, and said softly, "That was . . . amazing, Judge."

Hardcastle smiled at his gravity. "I kinda thought you'd like it. The sun's gotta catch the surf just right to do that, and I thought maybe it might happen this morning. Just seemed sort of _fitting_, somehow." He studied McCormick's face with puzzled eyes. "So what's the matter?"

"I _did_ like it," McCormick insisted. Turning away from the sea, he looked down at the testament in his hand, and then he held it out to the judge, his eyes locking onto Hardcastle's. "Judge, if I read that the way you did, I'm not sure I can ever be whatever it was your son was hoping you'd get, 'cause you deserve a whole lot better than me."

"McCormick, why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Hardcastle answered in a gruffly gentle voice, taking the testament and placing it carefully in his shirt pocket. He grinned crookedly. "I'm supposed to be good at that sort of thing, you know."

They began walking in companionable silence toward the back of the house, then McCormick said in sudden uncertainty, "You know, if I'da _known_, I would've tried a little harder."

"McCormick, you did _fine_," Hardcastle replied, the exasperation in his voice marking a return to his normal crusty self. "I'm _satisfied_, okay? If I wasn't, I wouldn't be footing the bill for that law school of yours."

"Well," McCormick answered, his voice contrite, although his expression began to lighten perceptibly. "I _am_ sorry I interrupted your sunrise service."

"Nah, you didn't interrupt anything. Me and God, we'd already been talking for awhile, long before you made your entrance. Anyway, I just thought it was time I did some thanking, for what He did on that first Easter – after all, it's what happened then that gives me hope that I'll see my own family someday. And I thanked Him for some other, you know, stuff."

Despite his best intentions, McCormick just couldn't resist. "Stuff, Judge? What kind of stuff?"

"Well, you know . . . stuff. Like having a nice place to live, and my health still being good, and, well, you know . . . stuff." Hardcastle's face began to show his irritation, and McCormick decided to back off, although he couldn't help grinning at the idea of being categorized in Hardcastle's mind as 'stuff'. Suddenly, the judge stopped and turned to look out over the Pacific, the deep blue sky and fluffy white clouds acting as proud harbingers of the fine day to come. "So, whatcha want to do today? I got a ham in the fridge, and some fruit salad, and there's some broccoli and corn on the cob in the freezer. Sound good to you?"

"Yeah, Judge, sounds great." McCormick smiled happily, as it occurred to him that, for the first time in his life, he honestly knew for a fact that he was not only where he was wanted and where he wanted to be, but where he was always _meant_ to be. He looked at the judge, who was once more stumping determinedly toward the house. "Hey, Hardcase, afterwards, why don't we take a Sunday drive?"

"A Sunday drive?" Hardcastle barked, staring at McCormick incredulously. "McCormick, are you out of your mind? Everybody and his grandmother's gonna be out there today, going ninety to nothing, running into each other all over the place. You never know, we might even end up with strawberry moonshine hid behind the seat." He lowered his voice conspiratorially as they reached the house and began to climb the steps to the back door. "Look, I got a better idea. We'll fix our Easter dinner, then we'll eat it, and then we'll clear the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then we'll go in the den, and I'll get in my chair and you can stretch out on the sofa, and we'll talk, and read the Sunday papers, and then we'll fall asleep whenever the mood strikes us. Whatcha think about that?"

He looked hopefully at McCormick, who showed his dimples as he said with a grin, "I think it's a plan, Hardcase." Then he disappeared into the house, his voice drifting out as the screen door slammed behind him. "As long as you're the one doing the cookin'!"

The End

Post-Note: _I wish I could say the story of the strawberry wine was spun from my own fertile imagination, but actually, it's based on a very true incident that happened to me and my family when I was eight years old. A few details were changed as necessary, but essentially it's the story of our adventures that Easter Sunday in 1964. To this day, I tend to stick close to home on Easter – and I hope I never see another bottle of strawberry wine!_


End file.
